


Just to Feel

by rustytiffany



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, F/F, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 10:43:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3647334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustytiffany/pseuds/rustytiffany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn has a lot of feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just to Feel

**Author's Note:**

> Fairly graphic description of self-harm. If that's triggering or makes you uncomfortable, you might want to skip this one.

It hurts. You’ve done this countless times, more than you really care to admit, and every time, it still hurts. Though, when you really think about it, isn’t that kind of the point of doing it in the first place? That’s why you started, way back when. You just needed to feel, something, anything. You had to do something to make the pain go away, even if only for a little while. It hurt then too, but at least that pain you could handle. You knew how to treat a cut; clean it, band-aid it, kiss it all better. When you were little, your sister was the one to provide the final step. When she left, Brittany took over the responsibility, always doing her best to make the pain go away. The last time you did it, Rachel was there to clean and properly disinfect the area before bandaging it and placing a light kiss over it before moving up to your mouth. She stayed with you that night, just to let you know you weren’t alone no matter what, and even managed to hold off on giving you a lecture until she was absolutely sure that you were okay.

You could handle a cut. That was easy. You can’t, however, handle feelings. Feelings aren’t talked about in your house; anything unpleasant doesn’t exist. Your father avoided his by lashing out verbally against you, and occasionally physically. Your mother buries hers at the bottom of glass after glass of expensive liquor. Your sister left without ever looking back, except for the twice-a-year phone calls on your birthday and hers. Sure, you dealt with your repression and accepted your significantly more-than-friendly feelings toward Rachel, but that was different. That wasn’t about pain. That didn’t hurt. 

You don’t even know exactly why you do it anymore. You aren’t hiding your pain the way you used to; Rachel made sure of that. You were actually pretty satisfied with your life. Your father was gone, your relationship with your mother was slowly improving, you ruled the social hierarchy and you had the kindest, most incredible, most beautiful girlfriend in the world. And yet, every few weeks, just as the scar was beginning to fade, you found yourself back here. 

You’ve gotten better at it over the years; a smoother, more precise cut; less suspicious placement; more convincing cover stories. You’ve upgraded from dull scissors to a cheap $3 butterfly knife you found in a thrift store to your current weapon of choice, a razor-sharp hunting knife that was on sale at Wal-Mart. You didn’t mean to buy it, but when you saw it sitting there with the stupid yellow markdown sticker displaying the reduced price, you couldn’t resist. It sat unopened in your drawer for a week before you cut open the plastic and moved your new toy to your bedside table, where you left it alone for two weeks before caving. You took it out one night, just to look at it. It really was quite pretty. You ran your finger lightly over the blade, watched the light from the moon outside your window reflect off the sharp metal. You looked down at the faded scar on your arm and couldn’t help the thoughts that ran through your mind. 

You knew Rachel would be disappointed if she knew you were doing this again. Last time she found out she made you swear it was the last time, not because she was angry but because she was scared. She loved you; she didn’t want to lose you for any reason in any way. You understood, and agreed that you would stop for good. You meant it, you really did, but you still found yourself running the blade of the knife lightly over your skin a few days later. Not hard enough to leave a mark, just enough that you could feel how close it was, feel the power and danger you held in your hand. You didn’t want to hurt her, you really didn’t, but you couldn’t help yourself. 

You traced the knife over the scar and pressed the edge a little harder against your skin. You curled your hand into a fist and tightened your arm, bracing yourself for what you knew was coming. You pressed deeper and began to slide the blade along the line already etched there, watching as a trail of deep red followed its path. You breath in sharply and wince; it really does hurt, but not enough to make you stop. You reach the end and move the knife away, pleased to see the small red stain on the tip of the blade, and place it down on the table beside you. This was your favorite part. 

You watch as the blood rises and spills over just a bit. You always make sure to cut deep enough to draw blood, but not enough that it won’t start to heal itself within seconds. You aren’t suicidal, you never have been. You don’t want to truly risk hurting yourself too badly; you just need a little bit, just enough to leave a lasting reminder. You lower your head and lift your arm to meet your mouth. Your tongue darts out, laving over the raised flesh and cleaning the mess you made. You moan softly as the metallic taste fills your taste buds. You feel the slight sting on the cut as you lick at it, but it only adds to the experience. You let your arm fall to your side and you lay back on the bed, breathing hard and feeling you blood pulsing toward the cut. 

Something about the pain feels good to you; its comforting, in its own twisted way. You can’t remember when or why tasting the blood became part of your ritual, but it’s become a part of you, a compulsion you can no longer control. You don’t know why you still do this, or why you enjoy it. All you know is you can’t stop.

**Author's Note:**

> title from Scars, by Papa Roach


End file.
